


wipe you clean with dirty hands

by moonfulls



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chaotic Good Pansy, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Mild Smut, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Potter and Parkinson scions run away and live out their 20s like an Italian romance, Runaway Harry Potter, potsandpans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 23:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14366376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonfulls/pseuds/moonfulls
Summary: She rolls her eyes and announces she will grow lilies on their balcony. Will that please him?





	wipe you clean with dirty hands

They buy a villa on the coast of Paphos. 

According to her, it’s modest. 

To him, it’s four bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, a Spanish garden and an underground cellar too big. She rolls her eyes and announces she will grow lilies on their balcony. Will that please him? 

It’s bought with his inheritance. She matches his contribution and donates the same to the local orphanage.

They spend months holed up, deliberately hiding from the outside world after years of running and chasing and fighting. Weeks pass, months pass. Spring and Summer and Autumn come and go. 

She wakes and slips from the heaviness of his arms. Up from the bed and navigating their room like a ghost. It’s late morning and he has lost track of what day it is, but the grey and clouds of the outside pour a light mist in the room which lets him know it is mid-winter, maybe a weekend. 

In their room, it is black and white and romantically dull, like a slow-burning ad for Eau de Parfum or an Italian film with no dialogue. He can see the flesh of her smooth back stretch and spill to her hips but in an instant, this view is censored by a knitted sweater.

‘Come back to bed.’ His first words of the day are croaky and barely audible. It almost disturbs the silence of their sanctuary, cracking open the dreamlike web they are cocooned in. 

She looks back at him over her slender bony shoulder. For a minute he thinks she will say something smart and snarky and deny him of his wishes. But the rush of his blood calms once she tosses her hair and walks towards the oak bed and moulds back into his arms.

‘Take this off.’ He fingers the sweater hem, grazing her hips. Transporting him back to a few hours ago where he held on for life. 

‘You’re insatiable.’ She says slowly not before guiding the same hand to her back, directing his intentions to a friendlier location.

‘Your body,’ he groans, pulling her closer to him, eyes closed, placing his nose into the roots of her dark hair. ‘God, your body, Pansy.’

‘Hmm?’

He pulls her closer, her firm sweater-covered breasts against his chest, a slender leg draped over his hips and his crotch comfortable in the warmth of her core. He grinds into her absentmindedly, trying to get as close as possible to her. She giggles as he grasps her ass, roughly kneading, breaking the soft cinematic mood of their morning. 

‘Shaskhuka or Cereal?’ She inquires, a little bit serious, a little bit sleepy. 

He feels a cold object being placed on his temples and opens his eyes to a defined view of a pug-nosed, dark haired, dark eye-browed slip of a thing. He thinks his tastes couldn’t be any more different from his father; who chose a freckled, red-headed, boisterous thing of a woman to have a son with. His mother was a heatwave. A glowing presence. 

The unsuspecting tornado in his arms was all limbs and languid and fucking slippery. An enigma. Moving feline-like in a room full of people in a satin whatever with a bareback, and dark sharp eyes. 

She’s silk, ready to pool away at any moment. He could not pull her in any tighter if he tried, lest he breaks the body of the soul he cannot live without. So, he resolves to squeezing the siren, breathing in her metallic, sharp-smelling hair. 

The newly placed spectacles on his face clarify the grin on her mouth. She has her slender, cold, fingers swiping gently against his lips.

When her question goes unanswered, she repeats again.

‘What would you like for breakfast?’

He’s quicker on the uptake now. Having broken awake from their dream-like state. He smirks back at her and closes his eyes before planting his lips to her warm ears.

‘Your cunt.’ He whispers.

A violent shiver runs through her body and before she can respond or deny him with the excuse - that this was exactly what they had done all night- he flips on top of her, nudges himself in between her legs and with one hand removes the thick of her sweater. Flings it across the room and feasts his eyes on what’s his.

He can see her eyes rolling back even from behind her closed lids. Her mouth slowly opening for him, in a shape which has begun to resemble a perfect fit for his cock. Three of his fingers are painting her core with her own clear colours. Releasing delicious sounds from both her lips. Her arms drag around and trail up above her head, trying to grasp onto the pillows in desperation. Her breasts bare and bouncing in display for him. 

‘Harry.’ She whines.  
‘Fuck.’ She whines.  
‘Yeah.’ She whines.

It’s the perfect cry in a mixture of desperation and lust, she knows he likes her likes this. All filthy and begging and wet.

His fingers pushing and wrist swiping at an unbearably faster pace. A hand comes back down to her body and clasps around her left breast. Playing with her prominent peak. He slaps her it away and replaces it with his own. Grabbing on roughly and watching it remain still, spilling through the crack of his fingers while the other continues to bounce. 

He gets off on dominating her body. Controlling it to his whim. Making her squirm and twist and stretch.  
‘Come for me.’ He growls.

Her knees spread further apart as his movements increase. She opens her eyes and stares at him for mercy. It’s too much now and both her hands quickly reach towards him, begging him to speed up or stop. He pretends not to know.

‘Faster baby?’ He asks through gritted teeth. ‘You coming for me?’

‘Oh, Harry,’ It’s nasally, and breathy and sounds like the sweetest melody dripping from her lips. Sounds like a fucking prayer which only fires his God complex. He repays his little plaything by rolling her nipple between his fingers, and depravedly pinching at her clit.

This drives her over the edge and her demise has finally come to fruition as her chest begins to concave in panic. 

She comes with a squeal and a dragged out, beautiful, groan just as her body quakes in tremorous pleasure and waves of sticky liquid flood out from inside her and coat his hand and thighs and black boxer covered cock. 

A light sheen of sweat has covered her body and her eyes are now unashamedly rolling back in continuous indulgence. She keeps coming, keeps whining, unable to recognise that his fingers have stopped rubbing her centre. 

His boxers are damp. Whether from his own pleasure or hers, he is unsure. He is unbothered. As his desire remains on the tender, red flesh of her body. He wants to crawl between her legs and bury his face into her. Breathe in her sharp smell. Place the flat of his tongue against the liquid heat of her pussy.

He wants to swim in her cunt. 

The heels of her feet rolling on his back, messaging out his tensions, her thighs calming his temples, and her kitten-like purrs getting him painfully hard. 

He’s been holed up in here with her for months and will beg her for more. Weeks will pass, months will pass. Winter will also come and go. She will beg him to let her plant Lilies on their balcony. He will plant kisses on her red lips and suggest Pansies instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this mood board from Pandy: https://andromedes.tumblr.com/post/168733977978/this-is-for-the-hprarepairnet-and-slytherdornet


End file.
